


After the Storm

by hestia_lacey



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestia_lacey/pseuds/hestia_lacey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porny episode tag to The Storm/The Eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Storm

It starts with this: the ladder of stitches running up the inside of Rodney’s arm, braced against pale white skin and the purple-blue shadow trace of veins just under the seam of his flesh.

Small threads tacking the edges of the jagged wound together. Rodney’s skin is agitated; a bright, angry red where the knife had bitten into him. John feels jagged too, broken, drifting. The ladder of neat black needlework looks like something he could hold onto.

John’s fingers climb the rungs from the base of Rodney’s palm to the vulnerable inward curve of his elbow in cautious, fumbling steps, counting every one. The ascent is inexplicably more than a movement of skin against skin, though what else he could be moving towards John doesn’t know.

The pulse beating in the crook of Rodney’s arm might be it: John can’t stop watching the flutter in the hollow of the joint. The skin is smooth and unbroken under his fingertips when he rests them there. The slide of John’s fingers over the vein, the catch of his calluses make Rodney’s breath hitch and that, that, is important. That’s it.

John’s hands fist white knuckled in the fabric of Rodney’s shirt as he drops to his knees; the pain of the impact is more than it should be if John were moving as slow as he thinks he is, but then nothing fits like it’s supposed to right now. His skin is too tight, pulling underneath his fingernails, across his scalp, and his mouth frames a sound that tastes like desperation, like a plea.

Beneath his clenched fists, Rodney’s heart is pounding: John can feel the vibration of startled speech where he presses his face into Rodney’s stomach but it’s the rush of blood he’s paying attention to, the hitch of breath.

His hands smooth down the lines of Rodney’s waist to the jut of his hips, the waistband of his BDUs.

John is peripherally aware of Rodney’s hands fluttering anxiously around his head. A fumble of confused words accompanies the stutter of his palms on John’s shoulders. “Sh-Sheppard,” Rodney gasps, the heel of his hand braced on John’s collarbone, pressing hard but not quite pushing. John fingers the hem of Rodney’s shirt, slides the fabric up to expose his stomach, the waistline of his pants.

Above him, Rodney falls absolutely still. Eye of the storm, John thinks. He’s still swirling at its edge, blood in his ears like thunder, rolling through his veins.

John leaves his left hand bunched in the material of Rodney’s shirt and drops his right to the buckle of Rodney’s belt. As he flicks open the catch, the metal clinks and flashes like lightning as the overheads reflect off it; Rodney’s skin is raised into gooseflesh at the sound, electrified, prickles with sensation under John’s fingers. With his thumb working the clasp loose, John leans forward and dips his tongue into Rodney’s navel, swirling once around the flesh before licking one long stripe down the trail of fine hair on Rodney’s stomach. The salt-tang of it makes John lick again, up and down the skin.

The drag of his tongue and the tug of the belt buckle as it comes undone makes Rodney pant hard above him; the hands on John’s shoulders grip tight, the pressure of Rodney’s fingers digging into his flesh, the scent and taste of skin, scrape of hair is enough to make John abruptly desperate. Both hands scrabble at Rodney’s fly, frantic, popping buttons one by one until he can get to what his mouth is suddenly so fucking wet for.

Rodney’s cock is hot and smooth in his hands when he slides it out of Rodney’s boxers. It hardens slowly in John’s grip until it fits the cup of his palm. On his shoulders, Rodney’s hands are shaking. When John looks up the length of his body, he finds Rodney’s eyes fixed on John’s fingers, teeth biting into his bottom lip.

Like this is something to brace himself for.

Looking down again, John leans forward and drags his lower lip over the swollen head. Rodney swallows audibly around a harsh sound that might have been a shout if he’d let it out. John repeats the motion, slicker this time, then closes his mouth around the tip of Rodney’s cock and sucks once, hard.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Rodney gasps, weight falling heavy across John’s shoulders where his hands still rest. John makes a sound at the taste that drips across his tongue, pre-come seeping bitter through his mouth. He wants to see what it looks like, so he pulls back and blows across the glistening slit to watch the way the pre-come beads, teases with the point of his tongue, licks from base to tip. Rodney squeezes hard on his shoulders, painfully so, and John’s name stumbles from his lips.

“Sh-Sheppard.”

On impulse, John lets the tip of Rodney’s cock drag across his cheek, rasping over his five o’clock shadow. It leaves a damp smear across one cheek that makes John shudder as it cools. “Fuck,” Rodney spits, hips jerking, and then a rush of “what-are-you-doing-sheppard”, one long run of words like Rodney was afraid he might lose them if he split them down.

John would roll his eyes but they’re closed, so he opens his mouth around Rodney’s cock instead and goes down to make his point, mouth sliding low, lips tight around it. This, John thinks, I’m doing this.

Rodney sputters when John pulls back, swirls his tongue under the sensitive head, then slides back down, repeats the motion, again, again, again until they’re both losing their mind to the rhythm. Rodney can’t help but shift into it.

When his hips jolt forward, the back of Sheppard’s throat flutters around him. The stretch of John’s mouth around him, the incredible heat of him, the way the friction of movement has reddened John’s spit-shiny lips is mind-blowing. When John moans at the movement, like Rodney’s cock nudging at his gag reflex is the most erotic thing he’s ever felt, Rodney finds himself a thin, frayed thread away from the edge.

“S-top,” he manages, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

And John does, lips pulled as tight and as far down as they can get. John has two fingers threaded through the belt loops on either side of Rodney’s open fly, and that seems to be all he needs to hold on to. He looks up at Rodney through eyelashes spiked with sweat, and doesn’t so much as breathe.

Rodney whines, because Sheppard, John Sheppard on his knees for him, so impossibly fucking pretty, unexpected.

“Not – I didn’t mean – not like - ”

John would smile, but as good as that might feel the spread of his mouth around Rodney feels better right now.

John slides his mouth back, sucking hard, tongue undulating against the sensitive vein on the underside of Rodney’s dick. Rodney makes a sound that twangs in low in John’s stomach, like a knot come suddenly loose. Heat unfurls and curls through John’s limbs, a warm front replacing the chill that’s been stuck in the air of his lungs for longer than he realised. Arousal goes pounding through him with a sound like rain in his ears: John’s been hard since his knees hit the floor, but this is the first time he’s felt it, a torrent underneath his skin, flash-flood of need.

His mouth slips off Rodney’s skin with a sharp pant, but doesn’t move away. His lips brush against the swollen, spit-glossed crown as he swallows down air, as he rasps “I’ll stop. I’ll stop if you tell me.” His voice is rough in his throat, deliciously raw.

John slides one hand down the length of Rodney’s leg, sliding off his ankle into his own lap, pressing the heel of his palm against his erection. He rolls his hips into the pressure, the friction of heavy cotton, eyes falling shut against the lightning flash of sensation. He twists his other hand into the fabric of Rodney’s uniform pants and leans in to whisper “But I don’t want to,” into the flushed skin of Rodney’s stomach.

Rodney hisses, moves one hand from John’s shoulder to twist into the muss of his hair. “Don’t,” he says, fingers tight in the strands, pushing John’s head back towards his cock. “Don’t.”

The tow of Rodney’s hand on his scalp whites out the inside of John’s mind; the storm that’s been spinning through his head is silenced, hurricane winds shifting to white-noise. When Rodney’s cock rubs against his lips, he lets his mouth drop open and lets Rodney just take, because this is the space he’s been looking for since he first heard that damn voice on the radio, since he saw the bloodied mess of Rodney’s jacket.

This is what he was climbing towards, fingers on the inside of Rodney’s arm.

Rodney’s hips shift, John’s hand keeping the pace on his own cock. The friction of the movement in his mouth, of dampening cotton against his erection is exquisite.

The pleasure builds between them like a static charge until John can feel it raise the hairs on his skin, the nape of his neck. His scalp prickles as it builds: when Rodney comes, his hands clench tight and the yank of his fingers in John’s hair wrenches John’s orgasm out of him. He swallows around Rodney’s cock on instinct, but doesn’t get it all; his lips are smeared with semen when Rodney draws back, drops heavily to his knees to pull John in for a deep, urgent kiss.

Rodney’s tongue licking the taste of himself out of John’s mouth sends another shudder of sensation through John’s body, but it’s pure pleasure, a warmth without the slice of blistering urgency. Rodney’s mouth gentles slowly over his, until it’s a lazy, sliding press of lips.

John’s edges are softened, now, yielding like the inside of Rodney’s mouth. He can taste the question building on Rodney’s tongue before he breaks away to ask it.

“Don’t,” John whispers against Rodney’s lips. The ‘w’ of why? has already pressed its shape into Rodney’s bottom lip. John smoothes it away with this thumb, then leans in to replace it with an oh. His other hand smoothes down Rodney’s arm to the crook of his elbow.

John’s fingers step carefully down the rungs, counting backwards.

When his fingers reach Rodney’s, they tangle together.

“Oh,” Rodney says against his mouth. “Oh.”


End file.
